Only Sometimes
by SmokeMyCancer
Summary: Refusing to allow himself the indignity of crying, Ian took a deep breath, raised one hand, and pushed at Mickey. "Get off of me," Ian said through clenched teeth. IanMick.


Only Sometimes

Ian stared down at Mickey. His frown was deepened so that it felt permanent. Parent's joke about features sticking when someone makes an ugly face, but Ian thought maybe the joke might not be too far off base. He'd been frowning a lot since Mickey came back. Sighing, Ian shook his head and took a step backward. "Whatever, Mickey," he said between clenched teeth. "You're so full of shit," he went on, going for Mickey's bedroom door.

Mickey, laying on his stomach because of his wounded backside, scowled up, face turned and neck raised. "Man, go to hell," he bit. "Don't act like you know fuck all about how I tick!" Mickey growled.

Perhaps the words would have been threatening, had Mickey not been basically incapacitated.

Ian chuckled sourly and rolled his eyes, hand gripping Mickey's door. He should have seen this coming a mile away. Shouldn't have let himself get back in bed with the boy Milkovich. Not after the burn Mickey had given him eight months ago. Only an idiot would have gotten back on that horse. When Ianlooked back over his shoulder, Mickey was hissing inwardly, eyes squinted in pain, and trying to roll onto his side. Ian's eyes widened. "That's not a good idea," he said, concern temporarily replacing his anger. "You're just going to tear your stitches out!" he bitched.

"I'm a grown ass man, fuck off!" Mickey snapped.

No he wasn't. Ian figured Mickey was the most childish person he'd yet met.

"You know," Ian laughed, feeling drained, "sometimes I. . ." he rubbed his face with both hands, ready to stop himself, but couldn't, "hate you, Mickey."

All was quiet on Mickey's end. The bed squeaked. Ian popped open his eyes, put his praying hands down, and turned fast. Struggling to walk, Mickey was approaching the door, face blank aside from his eyes; try as he might, Mickey was failing at masking his emotions. Whether the pain was there from emotional hurt of physical injury was debatable at this point. However, that the guy was managing to walk after having two bullets put in his ass was astonishing. To say the least.

Clearing his throat, Mickey stepped closer, backing Ian against the door. Ian's breathing picked up. He knitted his brow. Tried to become one with the door. His hand fumbled with the knob. What kind of damage could a wounded person really inflict? Rationality told Ian, hardly much damage. But when facing a Milkovich, maybe a lot of damage. Wincing as Mickey stepped nose to nose, Ian turned his cheek and readied for the worst. Readied for a hard fist against his cheekbone. Readied for spit in his face. For a knee fast against his crotch. Instead he got something completely unexpected. Ian's breath caught in his throat and his eyes popped open, startled and confused.

Breathing out, sounding defeated, Mickey leaned forward and rested his forehead against Ian's. He planted both hands by Ian's head and shut his eyes.

"Gallagher," Mickey asked, "what do you want from me?"

Ian, against his better judgement, turned his face forward. The friction burned his forehead. Mickey was pressing hard. Their sweat mixed. Ian held his breath and opened his mouth a few times, trying to form coherent thoughts. What he wanted to say was, 'Nothing. I just want you to go away. You're bad for me.' Because the truth was, Mickey was poison. As bad for Ian as Karen had been for Lip. Instead, Ian swallowed and said, "Just stop lying. I can't keep doing this."

Realization hit Ian hard. He wouldn't. He absolutely would not keep putting himself through this confusing relationship. Ian would not make the same mistake he had berated his brother for.

Mickey opened his eyes, but did not look up. Staring at Ian's toes, mind obviously elsewhere, Mickey chewed his lower lip. "I ain't ever going to be what you're looking for," he finally said after a long pause. Breaking the tension with blunt honesty. "What you want," he said with shocking clarity, "is someone who's out. Someone that makes you feel like _this_," he looked Ian dead on, emphasized, "what you are, what I am, is fine and dandy. I'm not that someone. I won't ever be."

If heartbreak was lethal, Mickey had just delivered the final injection. Ian felt like the wind was knocked from him. Like his legs might not hold out. He gripped the door knob until his knuckles ached. Clenched his teeth and swallowed the ball in his throat.

Fuck.

Well he finally understood now what it meant. Love. Love meant caring too much even when the care was misplaced. Love meant emotional dependency and ignorance being bliss.

Refusing to allow himself the indignity of crying, Ian took a deep breath, raised one hand, and pushed at Mickey. "Get off of me," he said through clenched teeth, steady trying to hold himself together. He could feel Mickey's heart rate accelerate. Alarmingly so. The undeniable fear rushing through Mickey betrayed his cool exterior. It gave Ian pause. Just enough so that Mickey had time to react, rather than be thrown back on his hurt ass.

Scowling, Mickey grabbed hold of Ian's wrist and shoved backward. "Don't get mad at me for telling you the god damned truth," Mickey hissed. He motioned his hands over his body. Forcing Ian's eyes to follow the action. "You knew who I was when you stomped in here," he pointed behind him at the bed, "with your fucking tyre iron! You can't change people, Gallagher!" If possible, Mickey's rage face deepened. Spit flying as he screamed in Ian's face. Mickey boomed, "You shouldn't try to! I don't ask you to change!"

Ian watched, eyes growing wider with every word that leapt from Mickey's tongue. His fuck buddy was unintentional letting his guard down. Anger, after all, has a way of unleashing truths that maybe aren't meant to come out.

"How dare you get pissed at me!" Mickey spat. "What?" he roared, "You're going to get all ass hurt over me fucking Angie? At my fucking guys in juvie? For not wanting to label this shit between us?" Mickey laughed hatefully, face to ceiling, hand on his forehead in disbelief, too far gone to stop himself and slowly realizing where this rant had gone. "Man fuck you!" Mickey laughed out. "You're no god damned better at this than I am! You and your daddy complex!" he snapped, cutting deep, "Shit! You ain't anymore in this than me, bitch!" by now Mickey's veins were showing. His face was red as he closed in once more, finger jabbing at Ian's stunned, frozen face. Scarily calm, Mickey breathed and said, "I'm a liar? At least I realize when I am." And then elevated again, saying, "Fuck your hypocrite ass! You're still screwing grandpa and fucking that chink under the bleachers!" The jealousy and hate rolling off of Mickey was somewhat terrifying. "Who else's cock are you gagging on, _Ian_?" Mickey spat, raised lip and clenched teeth.

It wasn't often that Mickey referred to Ian as much else besides his surname. Typically the circumstance was sarcastic or playful. Never had Mickey uttered Ian's actual name with so much hate. Well, not since barging into the Kash and Grab, ready to beat Ian's ass over a rape that never happened. Honestly, the name calling stung. Worse than when some gay basher had verbally attacked Ian and Ned outside of the club. Faggat paled in comparison.

Slack jawed, Ian collected himself and stared at Mickey, stunned. "Jesus Christ," Ian breathed. "You fucking hate me," he said with full on belief and hurt. More hurt than maybe he had ever been.

"You're god damned right I hate you!" Mickey bellowed, punching the door by Ian's head.

Ian jumped, startled. Yelped. Glanced over that the fist. His heart pounded as strongly as it ached. The only thought passing through his head was that yes, he had been right then when he told Mandy that the guy he liked hated him. Of course he had been.

"Get the fuck out of here!" Mickey shouted, stepping back and opening the door abruptly.

And boy, this time the pain of rejection was entirely worse than the last. Ian felt his eyes stinging and swallowed hard. Glared at Mickey before taking a step backward, into the hallway.

Mickey was breathing heavy. Out of pain and exhaustion. Panic, too. It was evident. because he was backing away slowly, Ian caught the wash of realization on Mickey's face. Watched Mickey's blue eyes widen fast, twitch. Mickey hopped and limped forward, wincing, and held onto the door frame.

"Hold on," Mickey said, suddenly hesitant.

This boy was moodier than Monica Gallagher. Ian frowned and struggled to hold back a brisk run out the front door. But his feet felt glued down as he found himself unable to look away from the trainwreck before him. The downward spiral that was Mickey Milkovich.

Rubbing his face and holding the side of his head, Mickey gaped at Ian. "I didn't," he stopped talking as soon as he started, breathed fast and deep for a second, then said, "I don't mean that."

Finding it increasingly hard to contain himself, Ian chuckled and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Which part?" he asked.

"That last one," Mickey said, eyes shifting in thought. "Don't go," he said, firm.

Ian continued laughing mirthlessly. He shook his head. "No," he said, "no you don't get to do this!" He felt the tears well up and hoped one wouldn't fall. Sure, Mickey had seen Ian cry, but never over _them_. He scowled, trying to counteract his feelings. "Decide what you want. Like I said, I won't take your bullshit anymore," Ian said.

Mickey stared back at Ian for a minute before he blinked, looked down, and knitted his brow. Rubbed his lower lip. "That's not fair," he commented, eyes downcast still.

Snorting, Ian was inwardly mortified at the wet streak he felt trail his cheek. "Life's never fair. You know that," he said, keeping his voice even. God, he hoped Mickey didn't look up. Despite wiping the tear away, Ian felt more fall fast after. A quick solution would be to drop this and leave as had been requested. However, Ian wanted to get this conversation over with. As much as it hurt, it was long awaited. Long since necessary. Ian broke the awkward silence once more. He wiped furiously at his face in case Mickey grew his balls back and looked up. "Last chance, Mickey," Ian said, steady still, if only rarely, "are we making this count?" he asked. "Or do we end us before you completely ruin me?"

As fear predicted, Mickey looked up then. Appeared ready to answer seriously, but stopped short. His face twisted between sympathy and annoyance. "Don't you do that!" Mickey hissed, stare hot on Ian's flushed face and red eyes. "Don't you cry, god damn it!" Mickey ordered.

"What do you care? You hate me, remember," Ian said, giving up wiping away his undoing.

Slowly, Mickey's face crumpled. He smoothed over his scowl. Swallowed and breathed throught his mouth. Ian was suddenly reminded of the stare he'd gotten from Mickey an hour before Kash busted the two of them. "Only sometimes," Mickey said, unsure of himself and it was out of character.

Ian cocked a brow.

Mickey exhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and dropped his head to the door frame with a thud. When he opened his eyes again, he jerked his neck. The angle was unnatural but got his point across.

Ian shook his head. It was a trap. If he walked over to Mickey, Ian was certain that everything this conversation had accomplished would be for nothing. They would end up back at square one. So he voiced his disapproval. "You're not fucking your way back into my good graces," Ian said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Eyes drying up now.

A bitter smile stretched Mickey's face. He bit his lip, maintaining the smile. "I wasn't going to try," Mickey mumbled.

Confused, Ian wrinkled his nose.

Mickey tilted his head and met Ian's eyes. Crossed his arms and dropped the smile. Pursing his lips, Mickey said, "Last chance, Ian." And jerked his neck again.

"I don't get it," Ian said.

Mickey sighed loudly. Reached out and gave one step, just to get hold of Ian's elbow. He pulled Ian, suppressing a groan of pain and rubbing his patched up backside. "Couldn't get fucked if I wanted to," Mickey said fast as Ian stumbled forward. And then crushed his lips to Ian's.

* * *

**NOTE: **I can't handle this two week grace period, guys. I just can't even.

Sorry if this was kind of sappy. I'm in a sappy kind of mood. But read an opinion on Tumblr about Mickey and Ian sharing a kiss; something about the kiss needing a build up and needing to take place in an intense scene kind of like the last one we saw of Fiona and Jimmy. And I thought, I agree. Then I though I'd give it a go. Sort of.

The way I picture an Ian and Mickey kiss is basically a mix of that one "I don't love you" scene between Lip and Karen . . .lots of confusion and a hateful fight. Kind of like this oneshot here. Fingers crossed that we get something soon.


End file.
